


The New Experiment

by Snootiegirl



Series: The Great Detective and the Army Doctor [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, New Relationship, POV John Watson, Post-The Great Game, Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snootiegirl/pseuds/Snootiegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John narrates how he and Sherlock decided to deepen their connection and forge a new relationship, post The Great Game.</p><p>"What I'm trying to say is that I'm interested in pursuing more of a relationship between us. And I want to know how you feel about that," I finished. Now that I had finally gotten to my material point and been encouraged by Sherlock's attentive posture, I felt good about the time and place as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It didn't take long after the incident where Moriarty revealed himself to us before I decided it was time to make another move.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, peering into his microscope at some viral or bacterial something that was sure to be a breakthrough in a case sometime in the next twenty years or so.

When I cleared my throat, he surprised me by actually responding.

"Yes, John?" he drawled.

"Oh, well, something I've been meaning to talk to you about, actually," I stammered out.

Then he surprised me again by abandoning his work altogether and turning his body completely to face me. I felt myself flush.

"Yes, well," I began again and mentally cringed at my lacking verbal skills at the moment. "I had a bit of time to think when I was Mor--when I was captured."

I really didn't want to introduce his name here, into this conversation or into our home.

Sherlock said nothing but remained attentive.

Ruffling my hair and shuffling my feet, I moved further into the kitchen, keeping my standing position in front of Sherlock. He had to be wearing that damn purple shirt today, didn't he? But perhaps that's why I had finally decided today was the day after all.

"Sherlock. You are my friend. You are my best friend. And I feel incredibly lucky, every single day, that I met you, that you came into my life," I began.

"Yes," prompted Sherlock, sounding suspicious, as if I were setting him up for something.

"Right. So. You are important to me. Very important. You saved me from the lonely, blank future I was facing after coming home from the front," I told him, gaining confidence from his attentive stance.

He was interested in what I was saying, even though it was all obviously about sentiment.

Intriguing indeed.

"And now that we've been living together, and working together, for a while, I wanted to ask you. To tell you," I was starting to stammer again when a text came into Sherlock's phone.

Saved by a text.

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his inner coat pocket and thumbed it on. Holding up an elegant index finger, he said, "Hold that thought, if you please, John. Lestrade has a case for us. He needs our immediate assistance."

And Lord take me, I was relieved.

"What is it?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

Eyes still glued to his screen as he texted one-handed, Sherlock replied, "Seems to have to do with that MP's daughter who was selling adult videos of various government officials. I'm intrigued how she managed to get the security footage from so many different venues."

I knew that Sherlock's mouth was on autopilot now since he was also simultaneously texting Lestrade and shrugging on the Belstaff. I followed as always, eager to get out of the flat.

It had been over two weeks since we had seen hide or hair of Moriarty. It was time to resume some semblance of a normal life. Well, that which passes for normal for us, anyway.

After coming home from the combat zone, I remember clearly that loud sounds in London caused me to duck and cover my head. When I didn't feel my combat helmet there, I remembered, split seconds after the reflex, that I was in fact not still in a war zone.

Well, not a foreign one, anyway.

For the past two weeks, I had been experiencing some of my PTSD again. I looked over my shoulder often. Strangers brushing up against me on the street or the tube caused me to tense for a struggle in case they tried to put their hands over my mouth and drag me away. Like Moriarty's goons had.

I hated feeling insecure like that. It made me skittish in all areas of my life--like that conversation I was so happy to have interrupted by Lestrade's text.

Of course, Sherlock made short work of the kidnapping that had resulted from the leaked indiscretions of numerous horny old white men. At least I could rest assured that my virtue was safe again from marauding Knights and Earls. The young woman who had used the illicit footage to expose the dealings of these corrupt men paid for it ten times over when several of them hired a goon (presumably not Moriarty's) to abduct and scare the shit out of her.

We should start a support group for people who had too high a number of goons in their lives.

I think that Sherlock is becoming a bad influence on me.

* * *

Three nights later, cozy in front of our fireplace, with a book and cup of tea to hand, Sherlock surprised me by bringing up our aborted conversation in the kitchen.

"What was it that you wanted to tell me, John," Sherlock asked, dropping into his own chair opposite me.

"Mmm?" I queried, looking up from my spot in my book.

"Three days ago, you said there was something you wanted to ask or tell me. What was it?" he repeated. Repeated? Good lord.

"Oh. Yes. I. Ok," I stammered again immediately. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow.

Placing my bookmark and putting my book aside, I slid forward in my chair so that my eye line was slightly above Sherlock's as he lounged. It made me feel better to be a little bit taller (if only metaphorically) than he was at the moment. Stronger, more confident.

"Well," I began and stopped again, placing my face in my hand in embarrassment. At this point, it was more embarrassing not being able to express myself than what I wanted to express. Clearing my throat, "All right."

"Sherlock, my near-death experience at the pool made me think about life. My life. Where it's going and what I want out of it," I began.

Not too shabby, I thought.

Sherlock remained quiet and thoughtful. But attentive.

I was pleased by this.

Smiling at him, I continued, more relaxed and eager. "We have a connection. We are friends, roommates, partners in anti-crime," I paused to laugh at my silly joke. Sherlock smiled thinly back at me.

"What I'm trying to say is that I'm interested in pursuing more of a relationship between us. And I want to know how you feel about that," I finished. Now that I had finally gotten to my material point and been encouraged by Sherlock's attentive posture, I felt good about the time and place as well.

I hadn't chosen it, but it had chosen me. And chosen well.

"Relationship?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious instead of sarcastic. "We don't already have a relationship?"

"Well, yes, we do. And it's great. And if you want, we could just remain as we are. But if you were interested in becoming even closer and exploring more ways we could enjoy each other, I'd be interested as well," I told him, finally sinking back into my chair.

We stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other, into each other's eyes. Sherlock would frown a little and then relax. He tilted his head side to side. I smiled and then relaxed my facial muscles. Finally, I stuck my tongue out at him just for the hell of it.

Sherlock guffawed at me.

"So?" I finally asked.

"I'm thinking," he said.

"Well, obviously. Would you care to share any of that thinking with me?" I asked as I leaned my cheek onto my fist and propped my elbow in my usual position on the arm of the chair.

"I'm interested. But I need more data about the parameters you are proposing to alter," he returned.

"Ask me anything," I assured him.

"Why?" he asked simply. "Why me? Why now? Why not another woman in the long string of them?"

That last bit was a little hurtful. I tried to remember that Sherlock was looking for data, not trying to insult me. He was really just stating facts. I had been dating a lot of women, serially, lately to try to make up my mind.

Was I willing to take that final step and commit myself completely to Sherlock, if he would have me? I knew that I wouldn't be able to go back once we started something. I was already too emotionally invested in him as it was. If we became romantically involved, it wouldn't be me who ever ended things.

Part of me was saying goodbye to women. Not just _that_ part.

"Why you?" I repeated. "Because we are good together. Why now? I told you--the semtec vest brought to mind my time in Afghanistan. But this time, instead of thinking 'god, please let me live," I thought "god, please let me save Sherlock."

"And why not another woman? Because no woman is you. Simple. The more women I dated, the more I realized that I was looking for someone like you--smart and exciting. When I could just stop, turn around, and perhaps have you--the real thing." I smiled again, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

"John," Sherlock said. And that was all. I waited a moment. "And why?"

I had hoped he had forgotten that he had asked that question first.

"The truth is that I'm attracted to you, Sherlock," I said. Might as well put it all out there for him. He said he needed data.

Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally at my declaration. "But I'm--" he began. Stopped. Cleared his throat this time.

"I'm going to think about this intriguing proposal," he pronounced finally. Then he looked into the fire.

After a moment, he stood, tugging his jacket straight. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Sleep well," I returned.

If I didn't know Sherlock as well as I do, I would have been disappointed in his reactions and responses. But lucky for me, I know him as well as anyone ever has. And his omission of an outright dismissal was as good as a 'yes.'


	2. A Scandal in Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts to weave itself tightly around the events of A Scandal in Belgravia. My headcanon is that the encounter with Irene is what tips things into a romantic relationship between John and Sherlock. I think that she makes John jealous. Then she makes Sherlock jealous. Then her antics help Sherlock understand the importance of caring and love. For John, of course.

I was afraid of rejection. Of course I was. I was afraid of messing up our fantastic friendship. But I was more afraid of not reaching for that which could be even better.

I was afraid of Sherlock not knowing how much I loved him. The lifestyle we led was not conducive to putting off important revelations. Either of us could be shot, stabbed, strangled, kidnapped, tortured--well, any number of unpleasant things could happen to separate us.

And with that being the case, why would I want to put happiness on hold?

I had never known the sort of happiness I had with Sherlock. I was so very alone in the world before I had him. Nothing to look forward to except being a doctor. And then being a soldier. But those two things did not keep me warm at night.

Neither did a long string of short-term relationships.

Sherlock warmed me. Inside and out. He was the red hot glow of passion that I was drawn to. He was the excitement and the solidity that I needed. Because as much as I valued his volatility, I had come to cherish his steadfast nature as well.

He also amused me. He claimed to not want me to write up our adventures (his adventures he wanted to pretend). But he glowed with the attention. Even for the 'unsolved ones'.

"Why did you think the press wouldn't want photos of you, Sherlock?" I asked him after we arrived home from the 'Bellybutton Murders,' as he so eloquently called them.

"No one ever wants photos of me. It's part and parcel of being a sociopath," he responded, trying to sound indifferent.

"You are not a sociopath, Sherlock. Stop saying that," I chastised.

He shot me a look and a smirk.

"Anyway, I like being able to keep clippings from the papers about our cases. You know that. Does that bother you?" I inquired.

"No," was his curt reply as he swanned from the living room toward his bedroom, a swirl of dressing gown following him like a superhero cape.

I let it go. But he apparently did not.

Hours later, he reappeared from his room. "It doesn't bother me that you want photos," he announced as if the interim had been seconds.

It took me a moment to rewind my mind enough to realize why he was making such a statement. Oh, right.

"So should I start carrying a camera to crime scenes?" I asked, teasing him.

The look of distaste on his face made me giggle.

"Can't the Yard be expected to at least furnish cameras and people to point them?" Sherlock asked with acid dripping from each word.

"Probably," I agreed.

Sherlock sighed and dropped into his chair opposite me. He closed his eyes and tented his fingers in their favorite position at the point of his chin.

"So what is it, then? What's bothering you?" I asked.

"I don't want their attention. I don't like attention," he explained.

To which I burst out laughing. Sherlock was so caught off guard that he forgot to scowl. His jaw hung slack for a few seconds, as I wiped away an errant tear from the force of my mirth.

"You! You don't? You don't like?" I started panting out my questions, hindered by my continuing laughter.

"Really, John?" Sherlock said, his scowl finally slamming into place and making him look five years old.

I finally managed to settle myself, mostly because I didn't want to upset Sherlock anymore. "Ok, but you have to admit that you saying you don't like attention is like saying the Royal family holds no fascination for Britons. It's just patently untrue," I soothed him.

He crossed his arms and looked away from me.

I had to try harder.

"So, you don't like the attention of the press, but you do like attention from individuals? Like me?" I ventured.

Sherlock dropped his arms to his lap, tucking his steepled hands between his knees. He looked so vulnerable like that. Folded in on himself. Like the weight of the world was right on those bony shoulders, bending him down.

"Who else?" I asked him gently.

He shrugged. It really didn't matter, did it? I decided to withdraw the question.

"Have you thought about my proposal at all?" I asked.

Sherlock leapt to his feet, and stormed into the kitchen.

 _Still thinking_ , I thought to myself and resumed my newspaper reading.

\-------------

The next morning, I was still shrugging off the last vestiges of blessed sleep, thinking softly about the semi-erotic dreams I had been having about my best friend. I murmured into my pillow, wallowing in its familiar feel and smell. I was still, every single morning, glad to wake up in a bed instead of in the sand.

Gradually, I became aware that I was not alone in the room. The sunlight should have been brighter across the middle of my body. Instead it was shadowed by something. I could feel the change in temperature between my torso in shadow and my legs in the light.

I cracked open an eye and jumped nearly out of my skin--which wouldn't have been much of a feat considering I was sleeping only in my pants.

Sherlock stood in the middle of my bedroom, empty-handed, his head cocked a little sideways, studying me with that intense gaze I so loved.

"Scared me," I said as I re-closed the eye and pushed myself up from my position on my stomach onto my knees and then onto my bottom. The sheets and duvet pooled around my waist as I rubbed my eyes to clear them. My shift in position brought my entire body into his shadow.

"Sorry," he murmured as low as I had, the smooth honey of his voice seeping into my pores. I shivered just a bit.

"What's going on?" I asked lightly. It was then that I really looked at Sherlock. He was wrapped in a bedsheet. I blinked once. Twice. I cocked my head to the side as well.

"Sherlock?" I inquired further, a slow smile crawling across my mouth.

Sherlock readjusted the sheet more tightly around himself. Then he blushed and looked down at his bare feet.

"Uh, well, I was just in bed--my bed--downstairs and--"

But he never got to finish. The surprisingly strong voice of our landlady (not our housekeeper) sounded from our own kitchen.

"Boys! You've got another one!"


	3. Irene Enters the Equation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interrupted in their potential rendezvous by the appearance of a client, Sherlock and John continue with business as usual, until it isn't.

Still in the bedsheet.

Still without anything else _under_ the bedsheet.

In Buckingham Palace.

I strove not to swallow my tongue in contained mirth. Sherlock. He really has a wicked sense of humor (not that he usually is funny on purpose).

As soon as I laid eyes on Irene Adler's photographs from her website, I felt my skin crawl. I knew this case would be different. I didn't know how it would be.

Mycroft smirked at Sherlock with his bloody superior attitude. Sex doesn't alarm him. I would know, wouldn't I?

Would I?

Sherlock and I had previous kept our sex talk to his deductions about whether I had or had not pulled the previous night and left it at that. He never dated. Oh, no, never. He was married to The Work. More like enslaved to it, I thought in my darker, less generous, moments.

So I guess I didn't know if sex would alarm Sherlock. My proposal about furthering our relationship had not seemed to throw him off much. We had rubbed along nearly the same as always. He made messes; I yelled at him; he ignored me. Yes, sir, business as usual.

 _But he was standing naked in my bedroom this morning_ , a little voice whispered into the back of my mind. I looked at him from the corner of my eye, imagining him as he had looked still in the same state. At the Palace. Speaking to the Queen's representative as he did all who he thought beneath him.

When Sherlock had finally been convinced by my gentle plea to change into his clothing, I had accompanied him to the loo to ensure his compliance. I stood guard on the door. He took rather longer than usual, messing with his hair no doubt. When he emerged, he gave me a secret little smile.

"Better?" he asked.

I smiled back.

"Depends on your point of view," I answered cheekily.

His smile grew a little bit at my tease. He reached out and squeezed my bicep once before switching into business mode. It was all bristling against Mycroft and shotgunning deductions then.

And that Adler woman.

She doesn't scare me. She doesn't intrigue me either. No one does since Sherlock.

After we left the Palace, I felt a little restless.

"Recreational scolding, eh?" I asked Sherlock, trying to draw him out a little. He had been quiet since his grand exit.

He quirked an eyebrow at me.

"Suppose that pays well?" I inquired, feeling playful.

"Mmm," was all Sherlock would commit to.

"Because I used to dress men down in the Army when it was necessary . . ." I trailed off as if I sank into memories. In reality, I was letting Sherlock's mind run with the image.

After a few more moments of silence, I asked him about the smoking, and blimey if the bugger didn't steal me an ashtray. He is sentimental. Heavy on the 'mental,' of course.

\---------------

Did I enjoy punching Sherlock in that alley when he took that tone of voice with me and threw the first punch anyway?

You bet your ass I did.

\---------------

Irene Adler.

I presume.

In the flesh.

_How dare she try to seduce my Sherlock!_

Did she not understand that as a participant in a case that Sherlock was working, she was little more than his pocket magnifying glass: a tool to solve a puzzle? She was no greater or lesser than any other person we had ever encountered on any of these forays into the underworld of London.

Plus, good luck trying to seduce Sherlock. That takes more than a blatant invitation, thank you very much.

After my initial surprise at her tactic to throw Sherlock off-balance, I studied this woman. Beautiful, of course. Smart. Used to getting her way and thinking she's the smartest person in the room. Hmmm. I wonder where I've met someone like that . . .

Yeah, so she was a lot like Sherlock. She walks in starkers to try to surprise him into a mistake. He has done as much with people. Insult them. Deliberately argue with them to get information out of them. Hell, he was just naked at the Palace himself. Though he didn't make that choice to manipulate, just because he refused to give Mycroft the satisfaction of compliance.

When I sat down next to her, after she had finally deigned to don Sherlock's coat, she immediately started flirting with me. And I kicked into default 'smile warmly' mode despite myself. It was a reflex really. When Sherlock started stumbling over his next words, I was shocked.

I swung my head around to look at him. He had regained his vocal composure rather quickly, but he had also turned away from the two of us to hide his face. He was rattling off deductions about the dead man in the meadow like a database spitting out information.

 _What do you know about that?_ I thought to myself. _He doesn't like seeing someone else flirt with me._

Explains about a hundred things that have happened since we've known each other. The lost phone messages. The interrupting texts. The ruined shoes. The crashed plans. The forgotten names. And every other cock-blocking trick he had employed in the past year.

Sherlock might not be ready to commit to me yet--at least not more than he already had--but he wasn't about to let anyone else onto the playing field either. I was flattered really.

I would have tested my theory even farther with Irene had Sherlock not ordered me to create a distraction.

I'm not his servant. I'm his partner. I perform certain tasks or functions and Sherlock his. We are a team. I'm just the part of the team who gets to light magazines on fire in the hallway. Sherlock is the part of the team who gets to charm the beautiful woman into divulging her secrets.

Wanker.

And then the men with guns. The less said about them, the better.

But we prevailed in the end.

Until that woman got the drop on us again.

I wasn't really worried about Sherlock's reaction to the sedative. He had purposely injected much worse things into his transport in the past. I paused to think about his past addictions. The man who claimed that his body meant nothing and his brain was all had managed to find a way to allow his body to render his mind incapacitated. The cocaine and heroin affected his brain, yes, but in a chemical way which was only possible as carried out by the inner workings of his body (bloodstream, neurons, etc.).

I cradled his head in my lap as I waited for NSY to show up. When Lestrade walked through the bedroom door, our eyes met. And we both burst out laughing at the picture the two of us made on that floor. Sherlock mumbling nonsense. Me sitting there, trying to keep him from moving and harming himself in the process. Greg snapped a few photos for posterity and potential blackmail. Then he helped me hoist the dead weight of a consulting detective into a vertical position.

"Any sign of her?" I asked Greg.

"Beside the redhead on the floor? No," he replied across Sherlock's shoulders to me.

"Ok," I conceded. I had figured as much.

With Sherlock out, I accepted Greg's offer of a car to take us back to Baker Street. Sherlock drooled on me the whole way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John make it home in one piece from Irene Adler's townhome. And John has to spend the evening alone.

Lestrade helped me up the stairs of 221B with my woozy lump of consulting detective. We dumped him unceremoniously in his bed, and then I thanked the Detective and ushered him back out.

I wanted Sherlock to myself.

I stopped to toe off my shoes on my way back to the bedroom, taking my time imagining Sherlock reclined in his bed. As little as Sherlock respected my privacy, I did respect his. I could count on one hand the number of times I had entered his bedroom. It was probably for the best anyway, since the room smelled so much like Sherlock himself that I might have found myself with my nose buried in the duvet or something else equally embarassing.

This evening, I had switched on the bedside table after we dumped Sherlock. The soft light cast long shadows across his nose and cheekbones. As I entered the room, keeping quiet even though he was not going to wake for a while, I found myself holding my breath. Until I heard a light snore. Then I couldn't help but snicker.

Berk.

Letting that woman get the jump on him. It wasn't like Sherlock. What was he thinking? Did she really distract him with her body? Or was it her mind? Or perhaps it was something else. . .

Ruminating, I removed his shoes and turned him over onto his stomach, mindful of Adler's warning about choking on his own vomit. Debating whether I should remove any more clothing, I decided that he could sleep in his posh clothes for once. The fabric of his shirt was so soft, I spent a few minutes rubbing circles into his back, calming him even further. Then a quick peck on the temple and coverings to keep him warm.

I returned chastely to the kitchen to make tea and dinner. The events of the afternoon had rattled me. How could they have not? I once again had a gun to my head. I once again witnessed the death of another human being. I once again felt my attraction to Sherlock flare in the face of jealousy. 

But no. I didn't want Sherlock just so that no one else could have him. I wanted him in my life because he was vital to me. We had an amazing rhythm.

Perhaps what had distracted Sherlock when he was alone with Irene was the threat that had been made against me? I just didn't know. He had sent me out of the room to check for more people--or wait. No, he didn't. She did. And then she drugged him.

I thought I heard a noise from Sherlock's room, but when I paused to check, there was nothing else forthcoming. I returned to my simple meal at the corner of the table I had cleaned before setting food anywhere near it.

She separated us. Deliberately. And took advantage of my absence. Well, that's a mistake I will not make again.

"John!" I heard from the direction of Sherlock's room. He was awake, though still disoriented apparently.

After I sorted him out, I returned to my chair to quietly celebrate my continuing life. I made it through another insane day--a murder scene, Buckingham Palace, Irene Adler--with my beautiful, brilliant partner and lived to tell the tale.

It occurred to me in the cruiser on the ride home that the CIA agent threatened both the woman and myself, but when he really put the pressure on, he chose me. In my vast viewing experience of James Bond movies, the bad guy always selects the woman to threaten and thereby force Bond into the action. Most of the time, he is able to save the woman. Sometimes not. But he does always try.

How did that guy know that Sherlock's weakness was me more than Irene?

We're friends. We're flatmates. I blog about Sherlock. He knew Sherlock's reputation as a detective. Perhaps CIA training teaches you to overlook gender and sexual preference in lieu of closeness of relationship.

If that's the case, that guy was a little smarter than I gave him credit for.

There wasn't anything worth watching on the telly, much to my dismay. I was too restless to read. Blogging was also out of the question. Sherlock's restlessness and quick boredom seemed to be rubbing off on me. I missed his reassuring--whether manic or silent--presence.

There was another sound. This time, I got up and walked to Sherlock's door. It was still closed, so I placed my ear on the wood. A faint shuffling reached my ears. I think it was Sherlock turning over in the bed. It couldn't be comfortable sleeping in those tight clothes of his.

An interesting contradiction that. Sherlock prefers his clothing slim and impeccable and his sleepwear loose and softly worn. The first is his armor. The second his comfort. When he seemed to resettle, I tiptoed back to the sitting room and took up my laptop. Perhaps a little recreational viewing on the web would give me a reason to relax and go to bed myself.

I settled comfortably into my chair and slouched as was my habit. My laptop sat on my lap. I surfed through several of my favorite sites before settling on one video which had a satisfying ratio of men to women. Before starting it though, I undid my belt buckle and unzipped my trousers. No sense in being uncomfortable.

The action on the screen got me going, but when my mind wandered off in search of more stimulating content, it didn't tarry as it floated down the hallway and through the closed door of my flatmate.

I pictured Sherlock sprawled out on his big bed, naked. What would he look like? I don't mean what would his naked body look like. I've pretty much seen that. I mean, what would he look like as he looked at me? What would his face say, his eyes tell me, that his voice couldn't?

Would he look lost?

Would he look predatory?

Would he look on me or look away?

I stiffened with the notion of Sherlock looking on me with lust. His eyes dilated, his breathing labored as he roved over my skin with his gaze. I felt myself shiver a little at the notion. Being the subject of that powerful gaze was intoxicating.

It was also a lot intimidating.

I really wish Sherlock had given me some sort of answer to my invitation. One way or another, I thought. But then paused to be honest with myself. I didn't want it to be one way or the other. I wanted it one way.

And yet I knew myself. I knew that would start to crave physical intimacy. Sherlock barely lets me touch his shoulder, although I managed to nearly cop a feel of his arse when I put him back into bed earlier. That had been a nice reward for carrying him up our stairs.

By now, I was cupping myself through the denim of my jeans. I wasn't uncomfortably hard yet, just aroused. What else about the man would remedy that? His long fingers and bow lips.

Ah, yes. There we go.

Slipping my left hand under the waistband of my jockeys, I tested out my hardness. It instantly increased with the friction from my dry hand on my warm skin. Using my index finger, I teased over the tip to gather some moisture, retracting my foreskin as well. I lifted my laptop onto the side table and relaxed my head back against the chair, sliding down even further to widen my legs.

Ah, how would it be if Sherlock were here, kneeling between my legs? Tugging my jeans over my hips and down past my knees? Releasing my legs with a flourish and tossing the offending garment into his own chair? I let out a small groan as I imagined the flash of his ice blue eyes.

Then my fantasy Sherlock would sensuously slide his jacket down off of his slim shoulders, slowly to tease me. By myself, I started to give little tugs of my cock, encouraging more moisture from the tip. Using my other hand, I pushed my briefs below my bollocks and fondled them as well.

Where was I? Oh, yes, Sherlock was undressing slowly.

He would maintain eye contact as he unbuttoned one button on his shirt at a time, taking his time. His chest was revealed to me incrementally. I could reach out and toy with the sparse hair covering his sternum. Would it feel the same as my own or different? I wanted to find out.

By now, I was gagging for him. My hand pumped rhythmically over my hardened flesh, my nerve endings singing with the pleasure my mind was constructing. It took me fewer and fewer minutes every time I did this as my fantasies of Sherlock became more and more vivid. My testicles rose to my body cavity.

And then I was tensing all over. My toes clenched. My face grimaced. In my mind, Sherlock's eyes widened in heretofore unknown pleasure as he watched me empty myself in stripes across my abdomen and chest. The intensity of sensations led me to shake my head side to side along my chair, the additional scalp stimulation giving me even more goosebumps.

When I finally came back to myself, I unbuttoned my own shirt, removed it, and wiped excess semen from my hand with it. For the laundry that one. But I felt better, and that was what mattered. The tension I had been carrying around with me all day from the moment I saw that woman naked with Sherlock had finally dissipated.

Fantasy Sherlock wore a self-satisfied smirk. Cock.


	5. The Text Tone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All it takes to get John's mind off of CIA-trained killers is one little breathy text tone.

How long should I wait for him? Should I wait for him?

Or should I cut my losses?

The morning after our first encounter with 'The Woman,' Mycroft came to visit and hear about our exploits. Sherlock explained to him the situation, while I tried not to strangle the man for letting us go in there where CIA-trained killers were lurking. Surely the British Government should have known that.

Of course, what I was really concerned with was Sherlock's new text tone. What's life and death when a sneaky, underhanded, half-naked woman has climbed into your potential lover's room in the middle of the night to leave obscene messages on his phone? I couldn't wait for Mycroft to leave so that we could have a proper conversation about this turn of events.

The door had barely stopped vibrating from being closed when I erupted from my chair.

"You are not keeping that tone on your phone, are you?" I asked, trying to the right balance of commanding and vehement.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope at the kitchen table. As if on cue, the tone rang again. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

He grabbed his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown, read the text quickly, and returned the phone. He made no move to answer it, but he dropped his attention back to his scope again.

"Well?" I prodded.

"Well what, John?" he asked blandly.

"Well, let's see. This woman flirted with you, drugged you, stole your phone and altered it, almost got us all killed, took pictures of our future Queen all trussed up, and blackmailed the British Royalty. She's not exactly harmless, now is she?" I asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Jealousy does not become you, Dr. Watson," was all he would allow.

My teeth ground together.

"Are you attracted to her then? Is that it?"

"No," he replied simply.

"Then what is it?"

Sherlock was getting as exasperated with me as I was with him.

"What is what, John?" he asked as he finally turned toward me.

I hesitated. Was I airing a legitimate grievance or just picking a fight? I had already admitted to myself that I was jealous. Would it help or hurt my argument if I admitted it to Sherlock as well?

I ran a hand through my hair. "You haven't given me an answer to my proposal," I said, deflating like a punctured balloon. I couldn't help but look down from his penetrating gaze. My heart was on my sleeve here.

The phone sounded again. I flinched.

He repeated his earlier actions to check the message, with no response.

"What does she want?" I asked quietly.

"I don't know. Women aren't really my area, remember?" he responded.

Oh, yes.

"But what does she say?" I had been wondering this from the first.

He shrugged. "Mostly asks me for dinner. But I'm not hungry that often. She asks a lot," he said genuinely puzzled.

"Oh," I said. "Well, you could, if you wanted . . ." I trailed off.

Sherlock made an impatient sound. "John, you are being very obfuscating today. Why is that?"

My temple started to throb with my heartbeat.

"Sherlock," I say in my most patient doctor voice. "I'm trying to tell you--no. I'm trying to ask you." I sigh in frustration and run both of my hands through my hair. I am feeling a lot more emotional about this than I like.

And why shouldn't I? Didn't I open myself up and literally lay myself at his feet? At least it felt that way. And he hasn't reciprocated or even acknowledged my feelings since that conversation. Except for appearing in my bedroom yesterday morning . . . but who knows what that had meant? Maybe even he didn't.

"Yeah," I started again. "It's fine. It's all fine. I'm going to go for a walk, yeah?"

Sherlock watched me with a small frown on his face as I walked back out of the kitchen and to my coat. It was starting to be nippy enough to need a coat more often than not. Some cool air would clear my mind as it always does.

I stomped down Baker Street on my way to Regent's Park, my favorite storm-off-to-get-over-Sherlock's-latest-faux pas destination. How dare he? How dare he? Treat me like my feelings don't matter? Treat me like everyone else? Did I mean nothing to him? Did our friendship and partnership?

Deep breaths there, Captain, I told myself. I stopped and stood at attention for a solid minute. Then I consciously let it all go. Adler. The CIA. Mycroft. Sherlock. I counted backwards from one hundred and by the time I got to five, I looked around for a bench.

My leg was twitching.

Damn it. Damn him. Damn myself. Trying to get involved in a self-involved sociopath. What was I thinking? Trailing around after him all around London was one thing. Entrusting my heart to him? Quite another.

I knew who he was and what he was like. But did I think I could change him? Did I want to change him? Not really. This whole thing with Adler had thrown a monkey wrench into our dynamic. We had never had someone try so hard to come between us. My girlfriends somehow sensed from the get-go that it was a lost cause.

I rubbed my aching leg muscles to try to forestall further cramping. More deep breaths. Just then, my attention was caught by a couple walking languorously along the path in front of me. They were arm-in-arm and not talking. Just enjoying each other's company.

The thing is, we're like that. We are a couple in so many ways. I know it. But I don't think that Sherlock does. I don't think that he has any inkling of what a relationship entails. He has Mycroft biologically. He has an acquaintance with Lestrade mostly to supply his need for cases to solve. And now he has me.

Our relationship is unique in both of our lives. I've never felt this close to any of the people I have dated before. We never had this length of a 'honeymoon' period between when we met and when we started dating. Usually, you meet someone you have chemistry with and you start dating. That's how you start to build your relationship.

But Sherlock and I have built something strong and tangible outside of a romantic attachment. Our friendship was withstanding any number of catastrophes and stressors.

Wait. Was that his hesitation? It was fairly obvious to me that Sherlock had not had a serious relationship in years, if ever. He had no experience in that 'area'. Perhaps his current hesitation, and confusion in the face of my jealousy over that woman, is born of fear of the unknown.

Would we survive the catastrophe of a failed romance?

I hung my head. Even I didn't know the answer to that. And here I was acting like a jealous lover without even actually being his lover. Not a great way to convince someone that a deeper relationship with me is a good idea, Watson. You can't let your own insecurities in the face of beautiful naked women get to you, I chided myself.

I would cherish what Sherlock gives me without pressuring him for more. I know that I am the most important person in his life now. Regardless of the form that attachment takes. And I will not do anything to destroy that myself.

My mind made up, I stood. My leg was feeling better already. Best to get home before it got any colder though.

When I arrived home, Sherlock was in the same position even though I had been gone a couple hours. I stopped at the Tesco on the way home for some staples. I was planning out dinner in my mind as I walked up Baker Street, feeling much lighter than I had that morning.

I placed the bags on the kitchen table, careful not to dislodge any piece of equipment. After removing my coat and hanging it up, I returned to stow away the food. Sherlock was moving his hands automatically between microscope and notepad. We hadn't spoken yet.

When I had run out of things to keep my hands busy and my presence in the kitchen reasonable, I cleared my throat.

He turned to look at me with a small amount of surprise.

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I'm sorry I went off. You don't deserve to be punished for someone else's actions. I overreacted."

"That's quite all right, John. Did you get milk?" he responded.

"Yeah. Also," I continued, "I'll not be pressuring you. I said I wouldn't. I won't. I--just wanted you to know that."

He blinked. "Yes," he said.

"Right. I'll make dinner in an hour or so. Ok?" I asked.

"I'm not hungry," he said as he turned mechanically back to his microscope.

"You're eating, nonetheless," I muttered as I walked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> July 3, 2015: Edited this chapter to make John's revelation during his walk a little clearer. His jealousy over Irene isn't making Sherlock want a deeper relationship with him, so he decides to let it go (as much as he can).
> 
> I think it works better than what I had before. Hope you do too!


	6. Is That Your Final Answer?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives John and answer. But it's not what he wanted.

One month to the day after I asked Sherlock if he was interested in pursuing more of an intimate relationship with me, he turned me down.

"John?" he asked from his supine position on the couch.

At that moment, I happened to be just entering the living room, having just arrived home from the clinic. I didn't even have my keys in my pocket yet.

"Yes?" I returned. I stood still and let my eyes wander up his endless legs clad in his usual pajama bottoms.

"I think not," he said, always the puzzle.

I hung my head in defeat then turned to hang my coat up.

"You think not? About the PM's speech or about the price of petrol?"

He arched an imperious eyebrow at me.

I continued, "I just walked in the door, Sherlock. I have no idea what you're talking about."

He watched me for a long moment going through my 'just arrived home from a germ-infested clinic' ablutions. When I returned from scouring my hands and face in the loo, he finally clarified.

"About . . . us," he said in a hushed tone.

"Oh."

Well, shit.

"Don't you want to know why? And to argue with me?" he asked me.

I studied my hands for a few moments. Then I squared my shoulders and looked right into his beguiling eyes.

"No, I really don't."

Then I turned and walked to the steps to my bedroom. I wouldn't let him see me given any emotional reaction until I sorted out what that reaction ought to be. I ascended with a jaunty pace and closed the door quietly behind me. Then I stood still.

I stood still for quite a while. It was dark when I stopped standing.

By that time I was not only tired but sleepy. I wanted to escape the reality that was Sherlock deciding I wasn't worth the sentiment or the liability. I stripped off my clothes where I stood, pulled back the covers on the bed, and crept in to collapse into my pillow. I could think more tomorrow. And the day after that. Tonight I would be numb and sleep.

My dreams weren't of Afghanistan. Nor were they of Sherlock. They were of friend long since lost in the journey of life. Apparitions who melted into each other over and over as I tried to find whatever it was I was looking for in the dream. It wasn't a particularly stressful dream. More like a slight itch that I couldn't scratch--that kind of annoying.

Definitely not a war dream.

The next morning I arose feeling as numb as the night before. When I descended the stairs to the sitting room, I could tell instantly that Sherlock was not in the flat. I was relieved.

I set about making my tea and breakfast, then showered, dressed, and left for my shift of work. I did all of this without really thinking about any of it. Auto-pilot.

I had to shift my brain into gear at the office if only to prevent the prescription of antidepressants for an infant. So I buried myself in the minutiae and caught up on some paperwork besides. But my shift couldn't last forever. Nor did I want it too.

I decided to walk--or trudge--home that evening. I talked to myself. Ok, so, he turned you down. So you can still be best friends with him and colleagues and a valuable member of the team. You just can't snog him or run your hands through his curls. You can't touch him excessively, but you can touch him occasionally as you always have.

No sex. The Work.

Was it a fair trade? 

* * *

 

When I met Jeanette, I really wasn't looking to start anything new with anyone. But she pursued me, and I like that in a woman. We laughed a lot. We talked a lot. She was smart, in looks and in brains.

And we fell into a nice rhythm very quickly. Sherlock even seemed to approve of her, at least tangentially. He didn't interrupt one of our dates which was unprecedented. I almost felt left out of his life because he didn't butt into mine as much.

But the good sex with a beautiful, sexy, adventurous woman was worth it.

We kept it casual. She told me up front that she was looking for something fun, not too serious. She had spent the previous three years with a guy who was never going to commit to her even though she thought that was what she had wanted. So she decided she wanted the less commitment herself. Just not with him.

Suited me. Got my mind off of my rebuff from Sherlock and helped us find at least the illusion of balance in our relationship again. I was even able to tolerate those text alerts with aplomb. Although I was counting the ones I had heard. She did ask him to dinner a lot.

We worked cases, and the weather got colder. Before we knew it, Christmas was upon us. And unfortunately for me, Jeanette got sentimental around Christmas. She was starting to be more clingy. I noticed it about two weeks prior to Christmas Eve. So what happened that evening wasn't as surprising as it was disappointing.

I didn't want to hurt her. We had agreed to keep it light. But she just couldn't. And when Sherlock forced my hand with Adler's apparent murder, there was no choice to make. Even if he wasn't my boyfriend as she said, he was still more important than she was. I let her break it off though since it gave her the feeling of controlling when it was over.

I vowed then and there that I would not date anyone else until I had absolutely resolved my feelings for Sherlock. It wasn't fair. To anyone, including me.

And when Sherlock returned from ID-ing Adler's body, I ached for him--not because I imagined he felt anything of significance for her--because all of his closest friends thought he was about to fall off the wagon. That she had that much power over him and his emotional state.

He's Sherlock. He ponders and thinks. He doesn't talk for long periods followed by periods of not shutting up. He is brusque and emotionally distant. He doesn't consider how other people see him. He is always, always deducing his surroundings.

His eyes swept over the flat when he reached the top of the stairs. He could tell by the way I sat in my chair (or however he knows such things) that Jeanette had dumped me. The same way he knew we had ransacked the flat looking for anything that he could binge on.

He also knew that I had made my decision to properly sort out my feelings and make a genuine effort to let his rejection go before attempting another dating situation. I wasn't happy about it, but I wasn't willing to pine for him and destroy what we did have.


	7. Just Who is Rejected Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Sherlock think that John isn't over him? Or is it more like a 'hope'?

I should have sensed trouble by the pattern of the dust motes swirling in the sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains at our sitting room windows. Or however one deduces such things with a glance like the Holmes' brothers do.

But in my defense, I had just awakened from a dead sleep following a particularly long shift at the clinic, covering for sick colleagues. I smacked my tongue on the roof of my mouth, and vaguely wondered if I was coming down with something myself.

It's been three days since Christmas. Three days of violin late into the night. Three days of scowling and stomping around the flat. Three days of experiments that scared me out of the kitchen completely.

And this morning, quiet and no suspicious smells greet me at the foot of the stairs. As soon as my bare foot reaches the floorboard, I am cautious. I am prowling. I am ready to spring.

My eyes sweep right and left through the moving dust that was as much a part of the charm of our home as the stacks of books and worn furniture. When they finally light on Sherlock, curled up in a ball in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Everything seemed ok again.

Until it wasn't.

"It wasn't my fault, was it?" Sherlock begins.

I scrub my face with both hands and look around again just for reassurance.

"Sorry, what? Fault?" I repeat as I make my way to my chair and flop into it.

"Jennifer," he pronounces in that voice of his.

"Who?" I ask.

"Your," he mixes up the dust again with a hand gesture toward my person. "Girlfriend?"

Light dawns. He has decided to catalog some details of the world outside of himself. "Jeanette. The teacher. With no dog."

"Quite."

"Um, no, not really. Coincidence that it all came to a head on Christmas Eve. But it had been leaning that way for a few weeks," I told him.

"Mmmmm," he hums as he takes in the new data. "I suspected as much."

"Then why did you ask?"

"I wasn't referring to my fault in the specific sense of that night but in a more general one," he clarified, eyes boring into mine.

I sighed. She had tried to make it seem like Sherlock had come between us with his interruptions and the Work. But--

"Were you unable to form the correct attachment to her?" he pursued his line of questioning.

"And what correct attachment would that be?" I volleyed, praying he wasn't talking about what I thought he was.

"You did express a romantic interest in me. I thought maybe that interfered with your ability to--"

"Whoa, right there. There was no interference. With anything. Nor are we going to discuss this any further," I said with finality. Which he ignored. Of course.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and released his feet to the floor. "I'm not talking about sexual performance, John," he rebutted.

"And neither am I. As I just stated. Emphatically."

Another eye roll. Another sigh. "I was wondering if my rejection of your suit has left unresolved sentiment which prevented you from forming a sentimental attachment to Jane," he clarified.

"Jeanette," I corrected automatically. "And don't we think a lot of ourselves? Although that's par for the course, isn't it?"

Sherlock just continued to stare.

I decided my best move at this juncture was to man up and--misdirect.

"Are you out of mourning then?" I jabbed, cocking my head to look at him with a bit of a smirk.

His startled expression surprised me. "Mourning?" he parroted.

"For Irene. You seemed pretty broken up by her death," I pointed out. Surely his behavior the last three days was not deemed 'normal' even by Sherlock's standards.

"Did I?" he asked vacantly. "Well, it was hardly surprising considering her choice of lifestyle, blackmailing the wrong people and all."

"Yeee-sss?" I prompted.

Sherlock's face turned sharper than usual. "I think that you know me well enough by now, John, to not assume sentiment in any of my relationships with other human beings."

"Other?"

"With any human beings," he amended. But I had caught him in a slip, and he knew it.

He stood imperiously over me, towering down from a dizzying height. I refused to be intimidated of course.

"So you have no sentimental attachments to any people in your life?" I asked him, fishing around for something I had glimpsed.

"No," he stated flatly. "Which is why your proposition was rejected." I tried to hide the wince I felt when he pronounced, with such finality, the word 'rejected.'

"Of course," I agreed gamely. "So why the line of questioning in the first place, if you don't give a toss for anyone's 'feelings'," I pursued, unable to resist my air quotes. Sherlock hates air quotes.

His jaw clenched and his eyes slammed shut. I watched his body language say that he tired of dealing with mere humans and their annoying foibles. Then he managed to rein in his hostility and impatience. I was actually a little impressed.

"You have seemed--off--these past few days," he said slowly.

"Me?" I asked with astonishment. I had been going to work and eating and sleeping normally. He had been the one--

"You. Have. Been furtive," he informed me and turned away so that I couldn't see his face anymore.

"Furtive?" I was incredulous.

"What are you hiding from me, John?" he asked, point blank for once.

"Nothing," I assured him, quickly. "Have I ever been able to hide anything?"

"I have found that the impulse to try has never been fully eradicated from you," he replied.

"Trying to hide things from you and expecting a normal amount of personal privacy are not the same things, Sherlock," I said.

"What do you need privacy for?" he shot back.

My mouth gaped a bit. "Because I'm an independent adult? Because I pay the rent here too?" I ventured.

"Hmm," Sherlock mulled. "Would you have required this amount of privacy if we had engaged in a more intimate relationship?"

"Well, I guess we won't know now, will we?" I returned, clipped and a little angry. I stood up to leave the room and the conversation. I felt wearier than when I had first come downstairs.

"John," Sherlock pronounced as he whirled to face me. He reached up to put his hands on my biceps, preventing my escape.

"What?" I asked tensely. We locked eyes.

"It wasn't her. I wasn't--," Sherlock pinched his lips together. "You need to know. Janet seemed to be more than. Well." As soon as he stopped his half sentences, he let his hands drop back to his sides. His eyes broke contact and wandered around the room.

I was confused as hell.

"I'm going for a shower, yeah?" I said. I needed to get away from the emotion that was cloying in the air. Mine, his. Some new, some left over. I wanted some space to think about what he had said--how he had said it. What did he mean by 'other' people? Did that indicate that I had some sort of special pass into the supposedly non-existent place where Sherlock cared about another person?

I turned away and walked down the hallway. Sherlock did not stop me. I heard him moving behind me, but his sounds were fading toward the kitchen as I moved away from it.

So much for the efficacy of misdirection.


	8. Short Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's alive. Oh, goody gumdrops.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"It's not what you think."

"What's not?"

"I like the attention. But not that way."

"What way?"

"I liked that someone was treating me like a puzzle to solve."

"I can see that."

"And she didn't just dismiss me the way so many people do."

"No, she didn't."

"But that wasn't all of it."

"What else is there?"

"I thought that her attention might be. Useful. Eventually."

"Useful? For the Work?"

"Possibly. You never know when we might run up against her or someone in her sphere again. Best to keep her close, as with all of our enemies."

"She's an enemy? Was, I mean."

"Maybe adversary is a more precise term."

"Ah. Not an arch nemesis like family."

Sherlock let a small smile show on his lips.

"Family is always the most arch of nemeses, aren't they, John?"

* * *

And then the Woman was alive again.

And I was livid. Her manipulations of Sherlock and myself would end. I would end them, or I would end her.

And then she sucker punched me below the belt.

"We're not a couple."

"Yes, you are." Slam. Bash. Kapow!

With what little breath remained in my lungs, I pushed out the next words, "Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but if anyone is interested--"

Others might be interested, but Sherlock wasn't. Damn it.

"Look at us both."

Indeed. Look at the two of us arguing over whether either of us meant something to Sherlock. Did my life mean anything? Did her death?

"Tell him you're alive. Or I will."

"There. I'm alive. Let's have dinner."

And then it seemed like events slowed down. That damn text tone sounded; she tried to keep me from Sherlock. He fled.

Ok, so maybe he does follow me everywhere. Or at least keeps tabs on where I am. Which is good. 99.5% of the time. I'm even not that upset that he followed me here.

I'm am a little worried that my stark announcement of my relative heterosexuality might have seemed like bitterness to him. Why do I care? Because I'm John Watson, and I just do.

Sherlock did not cease being my friend when he decided that our friendship wouldn't take a different tack. If anything, his honesty with me strengthened our bond. And I was the one who had been selfishly avoiding my feelings about his refusal.

Perhaps that's what the conversation had been about. His 'interference' and 'unresolved sentiment' talk. As forthright as he was about shutting me down, he had gone damned barmy since then. He wasn't comfortable around me because I was making him uncomfortable.

What a wanker I was being.

After Irene gave me a lift back to Baker Street, I approached the front door with all my confidence. I would apologize to Sherlock. I would admit that I was disappointed and, yes, a little saddened by his rejection. But I would reiterate that our friendship--

And then there was the note on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to leave a little note here for my American readers. I am an American as well, so when I wanted to have an appropriate British English slang word for 'weird' or 'strange,' I went straight to Google.
> 
> Here are some fun sites:  
> [Simple British Slang Everyone Should Start Using](http://thoughtcatalog.com/nico-lang/2013/09/71-simple-british-slang-phrases-everyone-should-start-using/)
> 
> [The Effing Pot](http://www.effingpot.com/slang.shtml) (You have got to love that name!)


	9. Breakthrough?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene's back, but Sherlock and John have other things to discuss on the cusp of the New Year.

"So, she's alive."

"Hmm."

"And how are we feeling about that?"

"Happy New Year, John."

"Do you think you'll be seeing her again?"

What the hell? Where had that question come from? I stared down into my bourbon as Sherlock played Auld Lang Sine. What right did I have to demand what Sherlock planned to do in regard to a woman who was clearly interested in him?

Was he interested back? That was what I really wanted to know. Had he turned me down because of her? I had been so sure that she meant nothing to him, but. Perhaps I had been wrong. Maybe she was more a match for him than I ever would be.

Cold. Calculating. But clever. Intriguing. Someone who wasn't immediately laid open to him as almost everyone else is.

But damn it all, I found him first! He asked me to be his flatmate. He trusted me around his experiments, asked my opinion on dead bodies and other evidence. I was his partner, his colleague, his--John.

I'm going to fight for us. New Year. Resolution. That's what it's all about, right? And since when did I take anything lying down? There's respecting someone's wishes, and then there's giving up. And I don't give up.

I didn't even ask him why he said no. Maybe he's scared. Maybe he's unsure. Maybe he just didn't think he could do it. Without the 'data' he needed, even Sherlock would shrink from a situation.

So I'll give him data. I'll show him how great it could be. How much better than it already is. And I'll reassure him that this isn't a fling for me. I'm not looking for the next thing. I'm looking for everything. And Sherlock is it.

We already know each other's worst qualities. Anything else we discover on this journey has got to be bonus. And I don't see how having unlimited access to those lips could not be a great bonus.

Sherlock finished his tune and put the violin back on the stand.

"Cheers," I said, raising my glass. He gave me a slight bow, a smile hovering around his mouth. I think he saw my change of determination in my eyes. I smiled back at him in a way I haven't in weeks and weeks.

Time to make up for my bad attitude. I had been a bad friend.

"Sit with me," I invited, gesturing at his chair across from mine.

He gracefully walked into position and dropped with a thump into the seat. His hands fell naturally to cup the arms of leather. His long fingers rubbed slowly at the same spots they always did, adding to what must be increasingly soft spots on the upholstery. Oh, that he was doing that on my--

But I digress.

Clearing my throat, I shifted in my seat a bit. "Any resolutions?" I asked him.

"Resolving to change myself based on a date on the calendar has all the chance of success of quitting smoking based on hearing a particular song on the radio," he pronounced.

"Meaning?" I asked.

"Meaning, John, that basing behavioral change on an arbitrary indicator is unscientific enough to transcend randomness and fall into chaotic aggravation--"

I held up a hand. "Ok, I got it. You don't make resolutions." I smiled to make my interruption less stinging.

He raised an eyebrow at me. "You asked."

"I did. Yeah."

"You?" he asked me. I paused to consider if he was trying out some social cue experiment whereby he returns a thoughtful comment or question or whether he was just curious about what my determination was all about.

I decided to make him work for it.

"Yes, actually."

We looked at each other, me sipping my drink, the fire snapping merrily, for at least an entire minute before Sherlock finally gave in and scowled.

"Well?" he snapped.

"Oh? Did you want to know what they were? I thought you were just inquiring whether I made resolutions," I answered. I tried to keep my face as innocent as possible.

His exasperated sigh and eye roll made me giggle.

"Well, let's see," I stalled. "Maybe I'll join a gym and lose a little weight. Get back into my service shape."

"Boring."

I held up a staying finger. "But useful. The more fit I am, the less likely I will be to pull something when dashing after some criminal element."

Sherlock conceded the point with a flourish of the fingers on one hand.

"Oh, I know! No more getting into posh cars that pull up to the curb. You know, unless there's a gun to my head," I said, and we both had a giggle. Sherlock's seemed to emanate from deep within his abdomen and rolled up and out like a thunderstorm. I briefly closed my eyes and let it wash over me.

Then I continued. "But, yeah, I'm thinking that a new workout routine might be just what this doctor ordered. Firm up the abs. Tone up the guns." As I mentioned various body parts, I flexed for Sherlock just to see what kind of reaction--if any--he'd give me. He looked significantly less bored but not interested by a stretch yet.

I decided to go for broke. "And my glutes. You should have seen me, Sherlock, when I was in active service. I could do two hundred squats without breaking a sweat." I checked to see if he was yet.

The look on his face surprised me.

"John, don't try to seduce me with talk of your body. I am perfectly aware of your physical assets," he chastised me with a very knowing look. It took all the tar out of me.

I held my hands up in defeat. "Ok, ok. So you caught me."

"You are not as out-of-shape as you portray either. Your whole visage is very pleasing, as you well know."

"As I well know? How do I 'well know?'"

Sherlock looked at me a moment to determine the intent of my question. "You haven't been at a loss for female companionship since I've known you, John. Therefore, you fall within a range of culturally-acceptable definitions of attractiveness."

I picked at an imaginary flaw in my chair arm as I asked in a quiet voice, "So then, why? Why did you say no?"

"You were hurt," he stated.

"Well, yeah. I was. Oversure of myself, I guess," I replied. "Figured you'd come around."

Sherlock shook his head. "Too much risk," he pronounced. "The data available at the time gave every indication that a romantic relationship had a 87% chance of failure."

"What data?" I asked, perking up a bit just knowing that he had applied himself in his usual manner to our situation. I had been afraid that just the idea of a relationship had thrown him so off-balance that he couldn't even approach it in a way that would satisfy his curiosity.

"Statistics on the longevity of relationships when the two parties live together. Factored in our ages, sexual histories, occupations, educational background--" I stopped listening.

And just watched him for a while. He had apparently enjoyed the research. His eyes lit up, and his hands were animated. I allowed myself to caress his skin with my gaze while he postulated. His Adam's apple jumped with his words. He shook his head and ruffled his curls in the process. I was mesmerized by the way he moved.

"And despite all of that--" I refocused on him as more than a sum of his body parts when I heard those words and looked at his face expectantly. He had turned toward the fire when my eyes had been occupied on his slender fingers. The warm light danced on his skin and reflected in his eyes, seemingly capturing that flame there.

He had stopped talking after that beginning phrase. Sherlock almost never left a thought unfinished. Even if it took a turn he didn't expect, he would follow the turn--not discontinue the journey. He continued to look at the moving flames, studying them, perhaps forming an algorithm to explain their patterns.

I held my breath. It seemed he did as well.

He inhaled suddenly and turned the full force of his attention back onto me. "Despite all of that, I wanted to give you an affirmative answer," he finally finished.

"Why didn't you?" I asked.


	10. New Year's and Tennyson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a literature discussion and things fall apart a bit.

Sherlock looked surprised by my question. 

But then he slumped. "'All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage,'" he said, quietly.

I let the words settle into the carpet. Caring is not an advantage? Some days I feel like all I am is caring. Caring for patients. Caring for crime victims. Caring for Sherlock. Was Sherlock saying that I was no longer an advantage to him? I had outlived my usefulness?

But what about the first part? All lives end. Yes. As we have almost daily reminder. All hearts are broken? Possibly. But then most hearts recover and go on to love again.

None of us were any closer to understanding Sherlock's relationship to romantic relationships. I doubt Mycroft would give me a straight answer. If Mrs. Hudson didn't know, who would?

So none of his data came from true personal experience maybe. Or maybe only from one bad experience. All hearts are broken. If it had been an early experience in secondary or at Uni, I could understand. Those first dalliances are so intense with exploration and hormones. And when it doesn't work out . . . it can feel like the end of the world. As if nothing will ever heal.

Honestly, the whole thing sounded like some bullshit that Mycroft would say.

I decided to counter with other more-conventional wisdom. "What about 'tis better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all'"? My eyes stayed glued to my hands, clasped together to stop them from trembling.

His honeyed timbre filled my ears, as he quoted, "'Behold the man that loved and lost/But all he was is overworn.'"

"What is that?" I asked.

"Tennyson. In Memorium," he mumbled. "As your quote."

"Ah, yeah," I answered, dredging up long-buried memories of lit class. "Didn't he write that for a friend who died young?"

Scowl. "Just because I remember the order in which some words were arranged by a man one hundred sixty-six years ago--" he began.

"And how old the poem is," I interjected.

"Means nothing!" he finished abruptly and stood. "Words mean nothing, John. Don't you see?" He spread his hands in a rather helpless gesture, willing me to understand as always.

"Now hang on. Remember I'm not a genius," I said, trying to settle down the volcano erupting before my eyes. "Words mean nothing? Your words? My words?"

"Words. They do not change reality. Science and math deal in reality. Words are an imperfect human construct used to imperfectly convey imperfect meaning between imperfect beings!" he continued his tirade.

I was going to get whiplash from the speed at which my emotional mood was moving from playful to abashed to outright angry. But that was my life with Sherlock.

He was pacing a rut in the floor from the fireplace, up and over the coffee table, to the sofa and back again. His hands pulled at his hair, and he mumbled and argued with himself. I knew better than to expect a reply, so I took a loo break.

When I returned to the exact same scene, I knew I had missed nothing. I retook my seat and sipped my drink again.

"Words can ensure nothing. Even the law prefers written records to spoken. Memories become imperfect as well. And the words we say, the words we never say, are confused as age takes us all down into oblivion," Sherlock further elucidated for me.

I looked at him carefully. Quietly, I offered, "You could have been a poet yourself."

"And cataloged your death?" he asked.

"What death?" I countered. "I'm very much alive and enduring your capricious mood swings, Sherlock. In case you hadn't noticed."

Sherlock stopped his pacing, pirouetted on one Italian-leather clad toe, and faced me. He was slightly hunched at the shoulders like he had just ducked underneath a too-low doorway to avoid bashing his forehead. I expected him to rise to his full height, as was his custom when lecturing me.

Instead, he crumpled to his knees.

"Sherlock!" I said urgently as I dove to his side on my knees as well. I grasped his elbows, and he mirrored his grasp to mine.

"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains . . . " Sherlock whispered.

"However improbable?" I prompted.

"Must be the truth," he finished. Then he sighed and slumped closer to the ground despite my iron grip on him.

"Sherlock!" I hissed. I needed more of an answer. He had to give me more of an answer.

"The truth is that you and I are not to be a couple. Everything else is impossible," he breathed into my shoulder.

"Impossible?" I reiterated.

"Yes," he said, sounding like had aged forty years in the past forty seconds. "Impossible."

When Sherlock Holmes repeats himself, one does well to listen.

I released his arms, and he did mine. I sat back onto my heels, and he began straightening his shirt. We did not make eye contact. We rebuilt whatever barrier existed between us to keep our delicate equilibrium in tact. Where we were best friends and colleagues. Where we saved each other's lives and tolerated each other's weaknesses. At least we would have that truth.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson would not be separated by anything less than death itself.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very shocked at the turn this took. What do you think?


	11. We All Wish Mrs. Hudson Were Our Housekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to check on Mrs. Hudson the morning after her assault. But she ends up being the one to make sure he's ok.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I called hesitantly through the slightly ajar front door of 221A.

"Yes, dearie!" she replied cheerfully. Was the woman ever not cheerful?

Well, she hadn't been so cheerful the day before, recovering from being manhandled upstairs and held at gunpoint. But as she bustled into the room, all smiles and the smell of baked goods, she did not seem any worse for the wear.

"How are you this morning?" I asked. I had woken up this morning concerned about her.

She patted me on the bicep. "Oh, just fine! Have you come to have breakfast with me?" she trilled.

"Um, I could, if you were offering," I stammered, surprised at the jovial mood. I had expected her to at least be a bit subdued. Mrs. Hudson wasn't your typical septuagenarian, but she was still susceptible to stress.

Trying not to think ill of my landlady, I nonetheless kicked into doctor mode and began discreetly looking for clues of chemical enhancement. Her 'herbal soothers' might have been too temping to resist doubling.

But as the lady rattled around her kitchen and told me to make myself at home at her table, I detected no sluggishness or fogginess of body or mind. Sharp as a tack, as always.

I really admire Mrs. Hudson's progressive sensibility. Not much ruffles her even though she is of a generation that had seen more change in its lifespan than any other in human history. I saw men and women of her age group almost daily in my practice who were much less adaptable and much more grumpy about it.

But her acceptance of both Sherlock's chosen career and its invasion of her living space spoke volumes about who she was and what she valued in her friends. She knew good people from a misspent youth associating with the wrong people. Her husband and his associates might have left a bad taste in her mouth but also a lasting ability to take the measure of a man quickly.

She had done that to me, to be sure. When she had insinuated that Sherlock and I would be sharing a bedroom in 221B, I had been taken back on several levels. First was the obvious. But there were other surprising aspects to asking a perfect stranger if he were moving in with her tenant.

I had even entertained the notion that she was testing me with her mention of 'another bedroom if you'll be needing it.' She wanted to know what kind of man I was by my answer. Of course we would be needing two bedrooms--not because of sexual preferences but because the two of us had just met and spent less than five minutes in each others' company.

I was looking for long-term living arrangements, not short-term sex. I am an adult to Sherlock's teenager. I am sensible to Sherlock's impulsiveness. I needed a friend. Sherlock needed one as well. And Mrs. Hudson was well-pleased to provide the space for the two of us to build a friendship. 

I had also been secretly pleased that Mrs. Hudson had deemed me worthy of living in her building, sharing space with her Sherlock. What would she make of this recent hiccup in our friendship, I wonder.

Mrs. Hudson finally dropped into her chair opposite of me with her cup of tea.

"This is really fantastic, Mrs. Hudson," I gushed. "Delicious. You are a wizard in the kitchen." I smiled genuinely.

She tutted, but flushed with pride. "It was nothing. Just had the ingredients lying around begging to be whipped up." She took a sip of tea.

I took another bite and chewed. As I bent to take another, she set her tea cup down gently and toyed with the saucer.

"John?" she began.

"Yes?" I returned, oblivious to what lay ahead, the bite perched on my fork mid-air.

"This woman," she said. "The one with the camera phone. The one who put the inappropriate text alert on his phone."

"Yes?"

"Is she important?" she asked very cautiously. Her eyes didn't meet mine as I looked up from my food.

"Important?" I repeated.

"To him. To Sherlock," she clarified and looked me right in the eyes significantly.

"Um, no more than any other witness or suspect, I don't think," I assured her.

She looked doubtful and reached across the table to lay a soft tissue paper hand on top of mine.

"Why does he have her camera phone then?"

"She gave it to him."

"Why?"

There was an interesting question. "I don't know, actually," I told her, thoughtful. "She said it was her protection. She has photo evidence of all sorts of deeds apparently."

Mrs. Hudson smiled ruefully. "Still," she prompted.

I ran a hand through my hair. "I really don't know. She told me yesterday that she made a mistake giving it to him. She definitely wants it back," I told her.

"Hasn't Sherlock or his brother made copies of everything on it?"

"Uh, no. He hasn't figured out the passcode yet."

She looked very shocked at that. She sat back and clasped her hands at her lips.

"Really! He was always so good at passcodes and such," she said.

"Still is. He cracks the password on my laptop every time I change it." I smiled sheepishly at her. He knew me so well.

"Well, that is odd. He must be in an awful knot knowing he can't figure it out," she reasoned. Then she stood up and went for more tea.

I watched her back, my delicious breakfast temporarily forgotten. Why hadn't I thought of that? Sherlock hated an unsolved puzzle--at least he did if he was unable to solve it. It drove him mad knowing there was something he couldn't figure out within a reasonable amount of time. Reasonable 'Sherlock time'.

He said my last password took him less than 2.3 seconds to guess. Or deduce. Whatever.

He had had that camera phone for over a week now. And he had known she had it for much longer. Should he have figured it out by now? Probably. Mrs. Hudson was right. Sherlock must be nearly buggered not having the thing cracked by now.

"John." 

Mrs. Hudson's voice brought me back into her kitchen.

"Yes?"

"Are you finished?" She gestured at my half-eaten plate.

"No, no," I assured her as I resumed eating. "Sorry. Got distracted."

She grinned at me with a twinkle in her eye. Then something more sad crept across her countenance.

"John. You know I don't like to interfere," she began. I held my peace and continued eating.

"You, John Watson, are a fighter," she said, pointing at me gently. "And I don't just mean you were a soldier. I mean that you are strong in will and in heart. You know what's right. And you are willing to fight for it."

I was bewildered by where this was going. I just hummed in agreement between bites.

"You know that I have known Sherlock a fair bit longer than you have, right?" she asked me.

I nodded.

"Not as closely as you, of course, living in the same flat. But in some ways, I know him better for having a bit of distance from which to observe. Oh, listen to me. I sound like himself." She had a bit of a giggle.

When she recovered, she resumed her serious look. "No case. No experiment. Certainly no other person. Nothing has his attention like you do, John."

"I know," I said quietly, eyes averting from hers.

"And yet?"

I said nothing, just barely avoiding hanging my head.

"Oh, John. Don't give up being a fighter." she chided.

"It takes two to tango, Mrs. Hudson," I conceded.

"That it does," she agreed. "Don't underestimate your partner though."

"What do you mean?" I asked, curious again.

"There are layers of others which we never know about if they don't choose to show them to us," she elaborated. "Soft layers."

"He turned down a direct request. It's not like he was the one who was rejected," I sulked a bit at this confession.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and folder her hands in her lap. She looked at me the way a mother looks at her child when she's been gravely disappointed.

"He--" I gestured vaguely in futility, "said. He said the data indicated too much risk. He said no." I slumped in my chair, utterly defeated, thinking about the conversation from the night before.

Mrs. Hudson set her teacup into its saucer with a decided rattle. I couldn't restrain my little flinch. It wasn't like her to abuse china.

"John Watson," she said in her best school teacher voice. "You of all people should know better than to apply conventional rules of social relationships to our Sherlock. Where is your head?"

I gaped at my sweet landlady.

"I'm not. I don't," I stammered.

"Yes, you do," she countered.  
I purposely pressed my lips together. She gave me a meaningful look not far from one Sherlock would give me, although more motherly.

"You know what you have to do," she said with finality as she scooped up my still-unfinished breakfast. I watched her mechanically.

I leaned my lips onto my clasped hands, elbows on the placemat.

And thought.

If Mrs. Hudson could be bright and chipper the morning after being held at gunpoint and assaulted, if Sherlock could admit he almost disregarded his data for his personal wishes, then I could dig down into my own nature and turn a full John Hamish Watson toward fighting for what I wanted. I could surprise Sherlock (although probably not Mrs. Hudson).


	12. John Observes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his little tete-a-tete with Mrs. Hudson, John returns to 221B determined to take a new path.

I arrived back upstairs to the smell of noxious chemicals. I covered my nose with my elbow and hurried to open some windows, despite the chill. 

"Sherlock!" I yelled. My voice came out all nasally from holding it with my fore finger and thumb. "What the hell?"

"John. You've returned," he called out of the cloud hanging low in the kitchen.

"Brilliant, yeah," I countered. "What is all this?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands sheathed in latex, his body covered in a thick rubber apron, and his shoes splattered with some sort of viscera.

"Experiment, John," he informed me with an eye roll. "Does this mean you are speaking to me again?"

That brought me up short. "What?" I asked.

"I assumed after last evening that you would be even more angry than the first time I refused you," he explained.

I shook my head and stood my ground with my fists on my hips.

"No. No. You don't get to misdirect from this awful mess and smell you've made. Were you cooking it?" I scolded him.

Sherlock huffed his bangs off of his forehead in exasperation. "I was determining the boiling point of the fluid of the ear. It's an interesting divergence from pure water--"

"Sherlock," I said in my most menacing but restrained tone.

"John," he replied, recognizing The Tone.

I scrubbed my face.

"We have talked about this before," I started.

"Yes," he goaded me.

"Experimenting on viscera in the kitchen is not on," I reminded him.

With a flurry of his restless hands in front of his face, he shouted, "Then where am I supposed to experiment on viscera, John? This is _my_ home too!"

I guess he had a point there. But I didn't let him smoke in the flat either. It was a matter of health and safety versus science. And as a doctor, I choose health and safety every time.

Holding up a placating hand myself, I squeezed my eyes shut tightly. Then I counted to ten. Sherlock, uncharacteristically, waited in silence, apparently patiently.

"You need to take steps to make sure that the flat is actually livable for humans and other mammals before you do this stuff," I said, with my last shred of patience as thin as Mycroft's comb-over. "This is your home, but we have to be able to actually _live_ here."

Sherlock huffed again in arrogant indignation apparently at the fragile constitution of humans and Army doctors alike.

"Just. Clean it up," I asked very politely. More politely than he really deserved. Then I turned on my heel with military precision. After I had passed through the doorway into the sitting room, I stopped to poke my head back around.

"And, yes, I am speaking to you, you daft git," I assured him. His eyes enlarged ever so slightly at the admission. I smiled and made my way up to my hopefully uncontaminated bedroom.

\------------

After a lovely mid-morning nap, I lumbered back down to the contaminated area I called a sitting room to find Sherlock actually cleaning. He was also actually grumbling and arguing, apparently with himself.

"No, no. It wouldn't be obvious! Obvious would be--obvious!" he shouted to the mop as he swept it underneath my chair. "She's clever enough. Beat me. But not with her mind. Just with guile. With deceit. With poison."

He kept talking even though he had to know I was in the room.

"So not a number but a phrase possibly. Her life. Her life. What is her life? The phone is her life. What would she use to protect her life?" he continued to postulate.

"A bullwhip?" I offered, smirking. Irene thought she was all that and a bag of crisps. But I had seen things in the Army. In other countries that don't even pretend to have the kind of veneer of propriety that London wears. And even that wasn't enough to keep much of what the seedy side of London looked like from the average citizen. And Sherlock and I were hardly average.

Twisted in with the murder, there always seemed to be a side dish of some other type of perversion. Something sexual, something greedy. Something just plain mean. Crimes of passion could arise from the spur of the moment, but I had observed in my time with Sherlock and as a soldier that the capacity for horror ran deeply inside every human being. And it often manifested itself in less obvious ways than a knife to the chest.

Stealing a little from the till. Taking a few more breaks during the work day. Packing a few more duty free things away than is strictly allowed. Defacing property. Adultery--physical and emotional.

Something in the water. Something in the air. Something in our genetic code.

These additional criminal impulses arose from the self-centered id. From the psyche that longed to be the center of the known universe. Look at me! Look at me! Aren't I special? Aren't I unique?

And here comes _Ms. Adler_ , with her pretend torture. With her veiled threats. With her playful dominance. Not that I wouldn't enjoy something like that in the right context, but it didn't intimidate me the way she had wanted. Her nudity had surprised me. And discomfited me on Sherlock's behalf.

But I have seen many a naked woman. Some much more exotic and dangerous than she.

However, I do dislike the way she has flummoxed Sherlock. She's _pretending_ to be smart. Pretending that she's in the same league with Sherlock. But she's _not_. She is not as clever as the man who caught a serial killer kidnapping his fares. She did not defeat Moriarty at his own set of games.

She is nothing compared to my Sherlock.

Why is he allowing her to get under his skin then?

"Sherlock?"

No direct response.

"What is it about that woman that's bothering you?"

At first, I wasn't sure he had taken in my question. His action never faltered. His posture never changed. Then I could feel the change in the air, wafting to me as if he had lit a cigarette and blown the smoke toward me.

"She will not win," he pronounced very precisely. "I will determine her passcode. I will retrieve the data Mycroft wants."

"All right." I felt the need to hold my hands up in a placating manner as if Sherlock were brandishing a gun in my direction. "Yes, you will."

Sherlock sneered at me and threw the papers he was holding in a great messy arc. They landed slowly, held up on the currents I had noticed earlier. It was a fanciful notion, but the gesture of futility, the frustration that Sherlock was demonstrating, made the moment slow down before my eyes.

I saw his refusal to admit defeat. I saw his determination to exert his mental faculties until he was satisfied. He said it was for Mycroft's benefit, but I knew better. It was Sherlock competing with himself--his past self. If he could solve the puzzle at some future date, then he would have proven that he was even smarter than himself. And he only respected his own intelligence. Saw only him as the person who would be able to outsmart himself.

I agreed. There was no one smarter than Sherlock when it came to this game.

"You will figure it out," I pronounced. "You always do." I wondered if pointing this out would help or just frustrate him even further as pointing up that he hadn't already solved it.

"Of course, John," he sneered again. "Thank you for stating the obvious." Sherlock stood amid his flurry of thrown papers with his hands on his hips, leaning forward to loom over me as much as possible from six feet away.

"So what isn't obvious, Sherlock?" I asked.

His eyes widen a fraction. He was surprised. His whole body relaxed into his studied nonchalance of a posh git. Hands in his pockets, he let his face settle into his haughtiest expression.

"Finally, you ask the right question," he replied.

I smiled despite myself.

Sherlock spun to face his chair and divest it of its scattered contents. Then he sat and gestured imperiously for me to join him by taking my chair. I threw the junk from my chair in a pointed attempt to show him just how silly his little tantrums were. He did not react. I sat.

"John," he started. "The Woman is moderately clever."

"Yes, just."

"Indeed," he agreed. "She does nothing without a planned escape. She planned her escape from her own townhome. She planned her escape through faking her death."

I leaned my head on my hand, elbow on my chair, settling myself in for a long series of explanations of what I had not missed but what was not obvious.

"She did," I agreed softly just to let him know I was following and encouraging him to continue.

"What she did not plan for was sentiment."

"Ah," I said faintly. "No one ever does, Sherlock."

He looked at me over his tented fingers.

"No," he agreed. "They don't, do they?"


	13. Sentiment is a Chemical Defect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene turns up (again!), and Sherlock deciphers her email. But in the process, she makes a few mistakes that lead to her downfall and John's victory. It's true what Sherlock says, John needs to observe more often. I'm sure he's learned his lesson now.

I met Sherlock coming in the flat the next week. I was off my overnight shift with the A & E. He was god-knows-where doing god-knows-what. He had a bottle of nice wine though.

"Celebrating?" I asked him.

He smiled a secret little smile. I stood aside and gestured him in the door I had just unlocked. He handed me the bottle as if I were his valet.

That smile. I thought about it the whole time we walked up the stairs. That smile gets me every time. Gets me to do what he wants every time. Like a valet.

Git.

Sherlock continued through the kitchen to his bedroom, sniffing strongly.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"We have a client."

"What? In your bedroom? Oh." 

I looked down at the presumption of this woman that she would not only break into our home but make herself comfortable in Sherlock's bed. She did look different though. More vulnerable. More real.

Older.

I held the bottle of wine tightly, keeping my temper in check. I should have known that as long as Sherlock had her phone, and she was alive again, that she'd be back for it. This was a new approach though.

Rather than come in with all of her bravado, she was trying to slip in as a waif. A homeless person. Damsel in distress. Sherlock surely knew better. I wondered if it would work though.

She was not helpless, as she had demonstrated to us the first time we met. She was able to take care of herself. But then again, here she was.

When she woke, she insisted she needed a shower before we talked. Sherlock waved her off. Afterward, she appropriated his dressing gown the same way she had his Belstaff. Trying to immerse herself in his scent, I imagine.

But then she made a mistake. She sat in Sherlock's chair. That's not where clients sit. Clients sit in the wooden chair and tell us their stories. They try to convince us that they have an interesting problem. But in this case, she was acting as if she were the problem-solver and Sherlock was her client.

What problem did Sherlock have? He couldn't figure out her passcode for her camera phone. So it was up to Sherlock to convince her to help him figure out the code.

His little sleight of hand giving her a duplicate phone was somewhat juvenile I thought. Why was he keeping something that many people were willing to kill for in his jacket pocket? Dangerous.

I willed away my arousal. Focus, Watson!

Now they were both standing, radiating aggression and competitiveness. Lord, if I wasn't helplessly in love with the man--and didn't know how manipulative she was--I would say they were perfect for each other.

Quick, think of some non-sequitur to distract them! 

"Hamish!"

Wait, offering baby names wasn't the best idea I've ever had. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

But the look of horror and disbelief that Sherlock shot me was priceless. I coughed down my giggle.

So they went on, not thinking about my interjection, posturing and bantering. And when she finally let him look at the email, I had just about half formed the thought about how beautiful he is when he's thinking faster than the speed of light when he made his announcement about the Heathrow flight.

Damn.

His eyes flickered to mine, and there were a million possibilities there. The infinite capacity of his brain to multi-task and be working on several problems at once was just as fascinating as anything else. I thought that I saw something of a question in those endless icy depths, but then he was back to her issue.

"Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John has expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language," Sherlock assured her.

Yeah, and you love it, you vain bastard. But I did feel the need to look down at my keyboard in front of me to hide my slight flush.

Then she propositioned him again. In her usual manner of dominance and power. And he responded the same way--with indifference. It's not a show of power that will win him over, Irene. A battle of wills with Sherlock will always make you a loser. Mycroft can attest to a longer lifetime of that than I can.

So perhaps that was the key I was missing. Sherlock was interested in someone who would be honestly vulnerable with him and allow him to be the same. Perhaps he thought he couldn't be vulnerable with me. Perhaps he thought that I wanted him to be the same strong, willful, egomaniac in a romantic relationship as he was in our working relationship.

Maybe he'd like the chance to relax from that and show a different side of himself. Sherlock needs a safe space in which to stop being Sherlock. And I couldn't see that. I was so worried about my own need to fight for him that I forgot that I might be able to win the war by surrendering the battle.

Sherlock liked my praise for his brain. But maybe what he really needed was my compassion for the rest of him. My understanding for the sentiment that he wanted to pretend he didn't entertain or understand himself. My willingness to let him be nothing more than the contentment he could find in my arms.

I was thunderstruck by this revelation more than the one he had just pulled out of thin air about a mysterious air flight.

And he was startling me out of my reverie to check the flights. I confirmed what he already knew. And he confirmed what I knew.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life," he informed her. She apparently didn't take him at his word.

I did.

Something to tuck away for a later date, I think.

"So what do we do?" I asked the two of them.

"Nothing," Sherlock said.

"Nothing?"

Sherlock gave me a withering look. Ok, fine. Nothing.

Sherlock grabbed his violin and moved to his chair. He sat down, his eyes fluttering.

Right. Mind palace.

I looked at Irene. She only had eyes for Sherlock.

"Yeah. Uh, he. He'll be like that for a while. He's, um, thinking. Hard." Poor choice of words. Her head jerked to look at me when I uttered that last word. I smiled tightly at her.

"Tea?" I asked. Damn my British-ness sometimes. I didn't want the woman to stay. I wanted her to get the hell out. Take her damn phone with her too. Get out of our lives. Let us get on with ours.

After making tea for the three of us, Sherlock's rapidly cooling next to him, I quickly downed mine while trying not to glare at the woman occupying my chair.

"Right," I started. "I'm going to go out for a bit." I gestured to Sherlock. "He won't mind. Or notice." I turned in a little indecisive circle. Was it safe to leave her here with Sherlock? It's not like we had any valuables. Nothing but ourselves really. And she didn't seem like she wanted to threaten him. She was still dressed in nothing but his dressing gown.

He should be all right, I assured myself. But I didn't have to sit here and babysit her. I'd just pop out to the pub and watch a match.

I shrugged on my coat and grabbed my phone and keys. I pounded down the steps, asking Mrs. Hudson if she needed anything while I was out.

"Oh, no, dearie, but thanks!" she replied.

Right.

Unfortunately, the game failed to distract me from my earlier thoughts. Sherlock hated sentiment. He hated vulnerability. Why did he hate it? 'Not an advantage' he said. What was an advantage? Being emotionless? What advantage was there?

As a doctor, I knew that an emotional state could greatly affect a physical state. Depression could be manifest as muscle aches. Joy could produce an adrenaline spike that masked pain or fatigue. In short, human beings could not truly separate the body and the emotions.

Sociopaths experience emotions. In fact, they are often ruled by them. What they lack is adherence to social rules--not emotions and emotional outbursts. And Sherlock is definitely prone to emotional outbursts--pique, rage, frustration, elation, pride, disdain. 

Perhaps a true psychopath could be said to have no emotional responses, but as mimics of others' emotional states, I wonder if their physical reactions--autonomic ones--would be affected as well. It was something I had not studied particularly thoroughly in med school, and psychology was a rapidly moving field. There were probably different conclusions now than there were then.

If Sherlock saw his body as just transport and wanted to keep his transport functional through minimal maintenance, then assuming a non-emotional state would seem to make sense. Don't let your emotions get the best of you. Don't let them slow you down. Don't let them clutter your mind.

His mind.

Rejecting emotions that he saw as unproductive and even an impediment to this mind would be Sherlock's first priority. And he would zero in on emotions of attachment to other people, knowing as he did how other people typically reacted to and treated him. No sense in depending on someone else to maintain an optimal atmosphere for thinking. In fact he would see that as the opposite of sense.

But what about me? Was I not different? Had I not proven my loyalty and dedication to him? To us?

So let's recap.

If I could give Sherlock data, or show him data he already had in a new light, if I could provide a safe place for him to be vulnerable, if I could convince him that entertaining emotions for me would not impede his ability to think, would that be enough?

I could always man-up and ask him. You know, have one of those adult conversations that seem so easy for women to have. Feelings and intentions, and whatnot.

I finished my pint and placed it decisively on the dark wooden surface. I nodded my thanks to the bartender who nodded back.

And when I emerged from the dark of the bar into the dark of the evening, I realized that I had been thinking for longer than I had planned. I headed home at a quick pace.

And when I arrived in my own sitting room, it was empty.

\-------------

When midnight came and went, I decided that staying up in the hopes of catching Sherlock tonight was fruitless. I brushed my teeth and collapsed into bed.

Sometime later, I noted the familiar sounds of Sherlock in the flat below me. I relaxed even more just knowing he was home.

But I felt my pulse quicken when I heard his tread on the steps to my bedroom.

A soft knock at the door had me sitting up and switching on my bedside lamp.

"Sherlock?" I asked blearily.

"John," he replied.

"Where have you been?"

"747 at Heathrow. Then Mycroft's."

"Mycroft's?" I was confused about what Mycroft had to do with everything. "Does that mean you were able to figure out how the 747 was going to save the world?"

"Yes," he replied softly. He remained in the doorway, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot.

"And?" I prompted, gesturing for him to sit down on the end of the bed. "Did you solve it then?"

Sherlock crossed the short distance between the door and my bed. His feet seemed to be dragging through water or mud, making the short trip harder than necessary. I frowned at him. What was wrong?

"Sherlock?" I queried again.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side," he said softly but firmly. "I do not like to lose."

"You said you solved it," I reminded him.

He waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, simple really. Should have seen it months ago. Lacked that last bit of data. Pulse. Pupils. The Virgin."

I frowned harder. "What?"

"When I told you that the odds of failure were high, when I told you that the risk wasn't worth--failing," he said in the same soft tone, faltering just slightly on the last word. "I do not like to fail."

"I know."

"I do not let my heart rule my head. I do not," he said, slightly more agitated.

"Yes."

"The chemistry of love is destructive," he said and finally looked up at me from his own hands lying somewhat uselessly in his lap. He was as tense as one of the strings on his violin. And his words were the notes coaxed out of the tension by the stroking of the bow.

"Can be," I agreed. "Can also be productive. Instructive. Even destructive in an advantageous way." I could feel my emotions shining in my eyes.

This was it. This was Sherlock pleading with me to make my case. To convince him. My first request left too much to him to research and conjecture on his own. He needed me to give him the details, to answer the unasked questions, to show him how failure was not the end game.

"Sherlock," I began. "I know you dislike failure. But there is no failure here. With us. Between us. There is only friendship and support. Caring about each other and sharing our adventures."

Sherlock continued to hold my gaze, although he decreased the intensity somewhat as I spoke. I reached out to hold one of his hands with lovely long fingers.

"You can trust me. You already trust me. I won't force you into anything, but I also won't let you hide behind a false assumption," I assured him.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at that statement.

"Hear me out," I said placatingly. "You worry that sentiment will impede your ability to think, to do The Work, right? But it hasn't yet. And I think we can safely infer that you already care about me. We're friends and partners in crime, or anti-crime."

That elicited a small smirk (again).

I continued, "You wanted data. You want assurances that you won't fail. I can give you the first, but no one can have the second. You'll just have to lower yourself to be like the rest of us on that count. I can give you this though."

I paused to brush a curl off of his forehead and cup his jaw.

"I will never willingly betray you for anyone else. I will never willingly leave you. I will never willingly take you away from The Work or anything else you need to continue to be your brilliant self," I finished.

He sat there searching my face, deducing.

"Will you have me?" I asked again.

This elicited a sharp intake of air. He held his breath and nodded.

"Good. Now let's talk more about this in the morning, all right?" I asked gently as I petted his cheekbone with my thumb. He nodded again in assent.

"Can I--" he began and stopped, his eyes darting to the unoccupied side of my bed.

I smiled.

"Sure. But no funny business," I said, waggling a finger at him.

"Really, John," he returned in mock exasperation.

"I'm serious. I have my reputation to think about." And I turned onto my good shoulder, drawing the covers up over me again.

I felt the mattress dip as he slid in a few moments later, after he had shed his dressing gown. Luckily he had come up dressed in his pajamas already. I turned my head to see if he was facing me. When I saw his eyes, so close to me, I reached around to pull his hand over my waist. He rearranged himself closer to me to accommodate his reach.

And then his breath was on my neck. My skin prickled a little. I couldn't help but smile.

I had solved a mystery before Sherlock did. I was quite proud of myself.

I turned out the light and relaxed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, one more chapter after this for the sexy times. Can't just leave it where it is now. But I want the sex to fit with the tone of the rest of the story, so I expect the next chapter to be long. John's hot to trot, but he's got to make sure he allays all of Sherlock's fears (without alluding to them as fears--God knows Sherlock would take umbrage at that moniker).
> 
> So stay tuned, drop me some feedback, and enjoy!


	14. No More Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock catches John up on the fate of Irene. And then there is snogging. And more.

The next morning, we lay side by side in my little bed, bed-heads on pillows, not touching, but somehow closer than we had ever been.

Sherlock told me more about what had happened with Irene. He told me that he knew he'd be able to figure her code out eventually despite her assumption that he had failed. He never felt entirely beaten as long as he had the phone in his possession and no one else did.

He also told me about her connection to Moriarty. How he had advised her.

"But why now?" I asked.

"I wondered the same thing for a time," he replied.

"I mean, she's been at this business for years. She's had thousands of clients, presumably. And she had a great deal more information to bargain for. One piece at a time would have been more profitable, I imagine." I reasoned out.

"Yes," he agreed.

"Plus, hang on, if she was working for Moriarty, who was trying to kill her?" I asked, a little indignant. "If it was the CIA, how did they know that she had a photo of that particular email?"

"No, John, the CIA only came after her when Mycroft informed them of her power play. He knew, as she did, that it was a last resort to make herself known to his division or any government agency," Sherlock said. "She had flown under his threat radar for years. Though not entirely."

"I still don't get it," I said tiredly.

"Ms. Adler likes detective stories. She felt her life and life's work threatened by someone who she wasn't able to buy off or ward off through the threat of others against whom she held some incriminating evidence. So she decided it was time to make her move to get out of her business once and for all--the intelligence business, that is. She pursued Mycroft for the help he could provide her, and she pursued me because of unplanned sentiment." Sherlock said.

His eyes held mine as his hand reached out ever-so-slowly to touch my chest. He held it there for a few moments, and I could feel my heart speed up.

"Unplanned sentiment," he repeated. "Is hard to resist."

"Sometimes," I agreed. "Yes."

"But it can make the impossible possible too," he continued.

My eyes widened just a fraction at this statement. _If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true._

I gripped the wrist of the hand against my chest, grounding myself. I was almost dizzy with things that I wanted to say all at once.

"Sherlock," I said, softly. "Why was it impossible?"

His eyes softened in a way I had never seen before. 

"John," he said, deeply, in a way that settled into my very bones. "It was the risk that was impossible to take. The risk of losing you through my own devices."

"Your own devices?" I repeated cautiously. I felt that any wrong word could shatter this moment for the two of us.

"I could not justify jeopardizing your role in my life through some misstep of my own. You are oxygen to me, John. What if I were the one to light the match that ultimately blew us up? I would not live beyond it," he said, his eyes dropping to the space between us but his hand never moving from my sternum.

I knew this was my moment to give him the safe space to be vulnerable by showing my own vulnerability.

"What if I lit the match?" I asked, using his own metaphor. "I could as easily misstep and destroy what we have too, Sherlock. Do not underestimate my ability to be a thick-headed, uncommunicative ass. I accept my weaknesses but hope that you will look past them for me."

His eyes raised to mine again.

I continued. "If you accept me as I am, I accept you as you are. And I want to be a part of your life in any way that you will allow. I need you too."

Sherlock drank in my words, keeping his face softened in an expression of such sweet vulnerability I just had to release his wrist to cup his jaw.

"Is requited sentiment less distracting than unrequited? The Woman let her sentiment carry her away. She thought her guise of infatuation was too well crafted to show her true feelings. And when she finally knew that my sentiment lay elsewhere, she made her biggest mistake," he said.

I felt my skin begin to heat and glow. This was the closest I was ever likely to get to a declaration of devotion from one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And I loved it because it was so him.

"I assure you that I will do everything in my power to distract you for the rest of our lives. But only in ways that you enjoy, Sherlock," I told him. My smirk was so full that I felt dizzy again.

"John," he said in warning. I held up a stalling hand.

"We will figure it out as we go, Sherlock. Is that all right with you?" I asked.

His put-upon sigh and eye roll, I will never forget.

I slapped him lightly on the cheek. "You'll get used to the distraction, trust me," I said.

"I do. Trust you," he replied. His sincerity surprised me.

I pulled him toward me, my eyes darting to his lips. The forbidden fruit no longer forbidden. Would it be as sweet s I imagined? Did it matter? The sweetness is in the act and the emotional connection behind it. Not in the literal taste.

All mirth drained from my body. I was as serious about these acts as any in my life. Sherlock was it. He was my soul mate. My other half. We completed each other as no two incomplete beings ever could. We were perfectly imperfect. Like the poetry.

My lips parted slightly as I approached him. He tried his best not to look too alarmed, but he couldn't fool me.

"Relax," I whispered. "I've got you."

He let out a held breath, and there--there was the sweetness. I licked my upper lip to taste it again. Sherlock's eyes dropped to my tongue just peeking out of my mouth. I leaned in and captured his lips with mine.

Just a gentle touch at first, nothing demanding. Then I angled my face to slide my nose next to his and deepen the kiss a little. I pulled on his top lip, then his bottom lip. He let out a hiss of air again and started to imitate my movements. After tugging slightly on his lower lip with both of mine again, I flicked my tongue up against his teeth.

When he relaxed his jaw and opened just a fraction more, I licked into his mouth seeking out his tongue. They met in a slick slide and bumpy taste bud meeting that had me letting out a languorous moan. I kept up the pressure of my tongue against his to let him know that he could push back against me.

I deepened the kiss once more by coaxing his lips open with my own. My hands slithered up to cup both sides of his mandible now. Using my feet and legs, I moved my clothed torso close enough to him to feel the heat of our bodies radiating through the thin cloth of two t-shirts. Then I pushed again and felt Sherlock give way to me.

Using my elbows, I moved my shoulders above his, kissing all the time but pulling back every so often to breathe and look at him. I couldn't help but worry at what that fantastic brain was thinking about all of this. I hoped it was in favor of it at least. I cupped the neck that supported that amazing organ and petted the hairs at his nape.

"Sherlock?" I whispered.

"Nnngghh" was his response.

I smiled. "Good."

With his brain thoroughly derailed, I started to taste down his chin to his Adam's apple. He swallowed and it bobbed deliciously under my lips. His stubble was a delightful find considering he was impeccably shaved and groomed most of the time. 

I wanted to see these little private things about him. Feel the stubble. Smell the morning breath. Maybe I'd even get to be privy to the ritual that tamed his magnificent mane. I wasn't looking for flaws. I just wanted to know all sides of my Sherlock. Not just what he chose to share with the world or even what he chose to show me before now. I wanted to see the tender and delicate parts that needed so much protection.

Sherlock's hands had started out glued to the bed when I rolled him over. But presently, he lifted them to my shoulders, our elbows resting on the bed together as I made my way down past his collar bones and pulled his t-shirt up enough to get to his ribs (which incidentally are quite ticklish). I stopped at his touch and checked in again, raising my eyes to his.

And was stunned.

Sherlock's eyes shone with unshed tears, provoking some of my own to surface. I blinked quickly as he did and planted one more kiss to his sternum before smoothing his shirt back into place and returning to eye level. I moved off to the side on my own shoulder again. His face followed me so that we were lying almost nose-to-nose on one pillow now.

"John," he said. I shivered from the heavy meaning in that one syllable. What this man could do to me with that voice.

"Sherlock," I answered.

"It's too good," he pronounced, his voice hitching a little.

"Shhh. No, no such thing. Especially for you," I assured him.

He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, and I squeezed him tightly, tucking my head under his chin. I could feel him trembling whether from holding back the tears or from the tidal wave of emotion itself--perhaps even he didn't know. What I did know was that I wasn't going anywhere until he didn't need me right here in this position doing exactly what I was doing.

Minutes passed, my arm started to fall asleep, but I still held fast. Eventually, his shivers did subside. And when he leaned down and started placing kisses in my hair, I removed my face carefully from his neck and looked at him fully again.

"Thank you," he said and gave me a lingering, loving kiss.

"My pleasure," I answered after the kiss broke. "Always my pleasure and privilege. Whatever you need, love, whenever you need it."

He smiled at me.

"I mean it, Sherlock. You don't have to pretend to be anyone except who you are here with me. I want to know you even more. And to share myself too. That's what this is all about. Not snogging and shagging necessarily," I elaborated.

His eyes widened comically, then narrowed into mischievousness.

"Though there will be both the former and the latter, won't there, John?" he asked with a sparkle in his eyes.

I took a moment to look at the beautiful man in front of him, his hopeful look rewinding the clock on him as to look innocent. I smiled and shook my head, knowing it was somewhat of a ruse.

"Don't pretend that you are a blushing virgin, Sherlock," I said to him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I am farther away from my brief sexual encounters than even you suspect, John," he said and winnowed his hands underneath my t-shirt. Pulling at the cotton, he whined, "Take this off, John. Please." 

His please was more than a request. It was a desperate plea. It was the wish of a dying man. It was the will of a nation that I was helpless but to obey. I leaned back and pulled it over my head, smoothing my hair automatically.

Sherlock reached up and mussed it again.

"Now you," I said, toying with the hem of his shirt.  
Sherlock undressing was a sight to behold. Graceful and sinewy, he moved like a cat on the prowl. Everything he did was fraught with intent. And he was intent on me, I knew.

"May I?" I asked this time before rolling on top of him again. My legs settled between his this time as our hips aligned. No sooner had I landed than his long gams were twining around mine, one foot slowly tracing up the back of my calf, sliding my pajama bottoms along with it.

"You never have to ask again, John," he pronounced, his hands moving up and down my spine in time with his foot. His right hand came up and over my shoulder presently to touch delicately at my scar tissue. "Does it still hurt?"

"Not really. Sometimes aches a little in cold," I said, nipping at his earlobe.

Sherlock leaned up and placed a wet kiss on my shoulder wound. I shivered at the intimacy of it. To think that such a horrible thing had brought me here--exactly where I wanted to be and where I never wanted to leave.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" I asked him, kissing my way back to his lips. "How can I love you?"

His shiver felt epileptic. I held him a little tighter.

"John, you already love me in ways unimagined in the history of man. I could not ask for more or be more fulfilled than I am now," he replied.

I felt my mischievous streak rising. Grinding my pelvis into his, I growled, "I'll show you fulfilled, my good man."

Sherlock moaned as I hoped he would.

"I stand corrected," he gasped out.

"Bloody hell," I swore. "You stand corrected. This is an auspicious day. Enough talking. Any sound you issue from here on out better not be recognizable as a word."

With that pronouncement, I dove for Sherlock's nipples. He was incredibly responsive as I laved them with my tongue, alternating when he felt overstimulated on one side. 

I massaged the pectoral muscle with my hand in an approximation of what I had done with women in the past, but had done to me by other men. I knew that the sensation was both arousing and relaxing. A perfect counterbalance to the stimulation of the nipples.

Sherlock's head started thrashing side to side, and I took mercy on him for the moment. Abandoning his nipples, I licked my way down his abdomen to snuffle at his navel. I always liked navels. They're so cute and so erotic at the same time. Sherlock was a little ticklish here too.

When his erection bumped into my chin, I rubbed the tip a bit through the thin cotton of his pajama bottoms. Sherlock let out a moan that threatened to rattle what few items lay on my bureau. I was rather proud of myself. I had just gotten started.

Bringing my hands to his hips, I started sliding the elastic down over the protruding bones. Every inch of revealed skin was covered in scratchy kisses and smoothed by my hands or nose. I even moved to the side enough to plant a kiss on the side of each buttock. Sherlock continued his litany of sounds and only startled a little with the bum kisses.

Leaning up, I urged him to lift his hips. After depositing his clothing on the floor, I shucked my own pants, and we were naked. I crawled back up his body and claimed his mouth once again.

Emboldened by his pleasure, Sherlock surged upward with me in his arms and rolled us to the other side of the bed. He repeated my actions much to my delight. He was always a quick study, my Sherlock was.

However, when presented with my naked cock, Sherlock wasted no time swiping his tongue across the slit. I was leaking like anything by that point. But I didn't want our first time to be anything but face-to-face. We needed to breathe each other's breath as we reached our physical and emotional peak.

Urging him back up, I kept a space between our hips and took us both in hand. Sherlock caught on to my plan and added his hand as well. After just a few strokes, I knew we needed the lube I had stashed in my bedside table.

I threw my free hand out, tugged open the drawer, and rummaged around. I came up with the bottle easily. Squeezing some onto both of our busied hands, I lifted my fingers away from delicate skin to allow the lube to come between my skin and his. He again followed my lead.

With less friction, we settled into a rhythm. We also settled into gazing into each other's eyes. It felt like we were having an entire conversation while pulling on ourselves. What things needed to be said at that moment, I don't quite remember. But they must have been important.

Sherlock's breathing steadily increased in pace until it was positively ragged. I wasn't too far behind him. I broke the sound of just our panting.

"I have fantasized about this, love. So many times. But it's more than I ever hoped," I told him. He couldn't help but squeeze his eyes shut as his breathing came in gulps and gasps.

"Come for me, Sherlock," I whispered in his ear, then pulled my head back to look him in the eyes, not willing to miss a moment of this experience.

His whole body convulsed and pressed closer to mine. I kept up the pace of my hand although his faltered. Guiding him through this moment of vulnerability, I kissed his cheeks where tears streamed again.

Once his body relaxed, I quickly finished myself off looking at his completely wrecked visage. He held me loosely but closely. It was heaven on this Earth.

We kissed softly and ignored the cooling semen on our bodies. Our exertions had worked up enough body heat to make it a minor irritation.

Finally, after a long interlude, Sherlock pulled back from me just enough to focus on my face.

"We beat the odds," he said.

I smiled and ran a hand through his hair.

"Of course, we did. We always do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no beta, no proofreader even. I have a tendency to write a chapter and immediately post it. So please, if you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them.
> 
> This last chapter got AWFULLY sappy. I might have to follow this up with a one-shot of something less fluffy and more sexy. Let me know if that appeals.


End file.
